Fists by Frank McGuinness

I'd love to see you lose your temperand go hell for leather against a man,who crossed you in a poker game you played,for no more reason than you felt like it.How would your hands contract into fists, squareand domiciled in the suburbs of townswhere no woman's safe, where buffalo straythrough streets that smell of a frightened boy's wit?Wit saved him often from the bullies' blows,it made him laugh - he could see through their clothes.Naked and gentle, they were not transformed.As nature intended, yellow as corn,they did not embrace, they stood far apart,sensing blood in the game of spades and hearts.

· From The Stone Jug by Frank McGuinness, published by The Gallery Press, Ireland (À11.40)